Another Dead Angle
by hamaell
Summary: Rated to be safe; sexual activities between men, though nothing too graphic. "He puts on a constant indifferent face to match his apparent indifferent attitude because caring about all the things he really does care about is too painful." Name spoiler.


**Author's Note:**

This was originally supposed to be another LxLight fic, but these characters had minds of their own and stated very clearly that they were, in fact, _not_ L and Light. So I changed them. I've never written Mello or Matt before, so they might just be the tiniest bit out of character. That, and there is also almost nothing about them to find anywhere, especially on Matt. What a pain ._.

Beta'd by **Laimielle** (what would I do without you, honestly?)

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Death Note

**xxx**

Eyes wide open, he stares out the window at the pouring rain, observing the tears of the city that never stops crying with a detached expression underneath the brown bangs of his entangled hair. Turning his head to his side, he somehow manages to send a look of almost-adoration in the general direction of the young man that lies in his bed, but isn't really his to have. He looks so frail, so vulnerable, with his eyes closed and his chest moving gently; the breathtaking sight of Mello asleep and calm for the first time in what feels like eons but really is only a few days.

_It's getting worse. He's getting worse._

He stretches –back cracking, mouth yawning, toes and fingers flexing– and reaches, without really thinking about it, to the bedside drawer and pulls out a packet of cigarettes and a lighter after a few seconds of tired fumbling. Mello says not to smoke in bed, in case he falls asleep with the cigarette still alight and causes the bed to catch fire (_I don't want the rest of my face burnt off, you dumb fuck_), but he knows he won't fall asleep now. He needs to stay awake so that Mello doesn't wake up.

Taking deep breaths, the cigarette burns his fingers and his lips too quickly, and he lights a new one; just to make sure that he'll make it through this day too.

After an additional three cigarettes, all smoked with the speed of someone searching desperately for a sense of calm he knows he can't find anyway, he removes himself swiftly and soundlessly from the sweaty mess of silky bedsheets and jagged nightmares. He is silent when he moves across the floor; a ghost almost as much in body as in mind.

He has learned to be so quiet he isn't sure he ever made noises before.

Ending up in the bathroom he brushes his teeth absent-mindedly, rough brush working so carelessly his gums bleed and the taste of Colgate and blood is funny on his tongue. When he spits, he takes time to watch the pink mixture run down the washbasin. Fascinated by the dull spectacle, he's taken by surprise when the door is kicked open, and his toothbrush hits the floor about the same time as he looks into eyes so icy blue it makes him feel cold all over. Mello's eyes are tearing up, salty liquid escaping in the corners of his eyes when he blinks, they are red and puffy and wild; unfocused until they focus on him and then they are killing him killing him _killing him_ with the anger and the blame that they place on him.

Mello was calm, but he isn't any more. He wishes now he had stayed in bed and smoked another cigarette instead of getting up.

'I woke up, and you were gone.'

His voice is controlled but trembling anyway, strained in a way only his voice can be, just before violence takes over – so he stays quiet and keeps his eyes fixed on the crack in the corner of the mirror behind Mello's head.

'I told you not to leave without letting me know.'

The tone is low now, a warning. The control is wavering and soon there will be only anger and cracked jaws, but he wants to face it so he looks, stares, into the eyes that kill him even though he trembles and he knows that Mello can see it.

'I told you not to fucking leave!'

It comes. Temper unleashed; he closes his eyes and clenches his fists behind his back as the punches from another pair of clenched fists rain on him like a hailstorm. He pretends that the punches are hail, because that doesn't hurt as much as his knuckles against his eyebrow does.

And then it stops and Mello is a trembling disarray in his arms when he cries from disappointment and frustration and exhaustion. He holds his shaking shoulders and kisses his damp forehead, despite being an inch shorter and a year younger and having to stretch a little to reach, and eventually he achieves in leading him into the kitchen. He puts him in a chair, kisses his cheek, gets a bar of chocolate from the fridge and then he watches from across the room as the candy is devoured in a frenzy.

Mello throws the crumpled up wrapper on the floor when he stands up and walks towards the door. No goodbye, no thank you, no words at all when he leaves him alone with the mess and the hurt.

**xxx**

He sits on the cold floor with his legs crossed, four laptops humming quietly around him in the only language he ever truly understood. He watches the screens, has been watching them all day, because that's what he's been told to do.

Goggles across the bridge of his nose taints his world a pleasant orange, taking away the sharp edges and screaming contrasts of his surroundings. His eyes are sensitive just like he is, although he puts on a constant indifferent face to match his apparent indifferent attitude because caring about all the things he really does care about is too painful.

There is a half-eaten chocolate bar on the coffee table but he doesn't dare to bite in it. He takes it in his hand every now and then though, brings it close to his nose and inhales deeply. The smell of cocoa is so strong and he can almost imagine what Mello's lips tastes like when they're pressed against his.

**xxx**

They never have sex. Never have and never will. What they do is not affectionate, but he lies on his back and spreads his legs and takes it in silence while Mello fucks his body and his mind until he's bleeding everywhere. Wrapping his calves and his arms around Mello's back and pressing himself against the burning skin, he holds on to sanity for as long as he can; until he's pushed over the edge with the promises that will never be kept, with the cock tearing him apart _again_, with the golden hair that falls into his mouth like it always does and he pulls it with his teeth like he always does because it drives Mello mad and then it's okay for him to go mad too.

_Mihael, Mihael, Mihael..._

Afterwards, it's him who crawls out of the bed first (just like it always is, even though he can barely walk), leaving Mello in the dirty sheets as he limps to the shower to wash away the filth and the insecurities. With the water beating down on his head and his back, he can think clearly for a while. Sometimes he aches so much he breaks down and spends an hour or two on the floor until the scalding water turns cold again; on other occasions, occasions like this one, he barely moves at all, just stands in the spray of the shower and lets it drench him thoroughly, lets it drench him until there is only water in his veins and there is nothing left to wash away.

It all depends on Mello. Everything _always_ depends on Mello.

He likes to think that he doesn't do it on purpose. That this is only a phase that will pass, eventually. He needs to tell himself that, or this would never work. He's tired but he knows that Mello is too, maybe even more so, so he doesn't complain about his bloodshot eyes or his pounding head.

While he stands in the shower, the door opens and Mello walks in. He sheds his clothes unceremoniously and leaves them in a heap on the floor before he steps into the water with him. His hands are demanding when they cradle the back of his head and his lips are hungry when they plant harsh kisses on his mouth.

Just a few moments, and then he's on his knees with the water from the shower blinding him while he blows Mello against the wall of the shower stall. The owner of the warm flesh that fucks his face is quiet and so is he; the only sound that spills from human lips is that of the deep breaths he takes when he tries to not to choke. Once it's over, Mello pulls him up and then simply steps out of the shower, wraps a towel around his hips and leaves him alone under the cold water.

This time, his legs won't hold him up.

**xxx**

Sometimes, he is certain that no one can hate Near as much as he does, not Kira, not even Mello. Because all this is Near's fault. It's his fault they're chasing their own tails, his fault Mello is slowly but definitely losing his mind and his temper too, his fault they never stay longer than a few weeks at the most in the same apartment. They move out and move in so often he's lost count of all the addresses, all the windows and the rain against them. As soon as he feels like he can relax and settle down, they pack their few belongings and move again.

And every time they think they are actually heading somewhere new, somewhere useful, they always end up realising that they're only moving in circles. Always moving in the same circles.

**xxx**

'Can't we just stop? You know, leave Near and Kira behind and just.. Take off?'

'No.'

His answer is short; leaves no room for discussion or protest.

'Please?'

He's pleading now, standing on the cold floor in the kitchen with his thinning arms wrapped tightly around his pyjama clad torso, trying to contain some heat but failing miserably. Mello is sitting with a laptop, engaged in the losing battle of trying to hack into what is most likely to be Near's computer.

'I said no.'

'But I don't think-'

'Shut your face, Matt.'

He falls into silence again and stands awkwardly looking down at Mello's features. They are twisted with impatience, and probably anger too, and the burnt skin shines in a disturbingly red colour in the faint glow of the computer screen.

And he knows Mello won't stop. He won't stop until he's beaten Near, and the sad truth is that he probably never will (though he would never dear open his mouth and voice such thoughts in Mello's presence). The competitive part of his personality makes Mello obsessively engaged in the manic pursuit and he won't stop, can't stop. He'll be going and going until there's nowhere left to go.

Walking across the room, he then squats next to Mello in a very L-like manner, leaning his back heavily against the kitchen counter. Pointing out errors and coming with suggestions, Mello allows his presence because he's being useful, and he doesn't mind being used when he feels the bare skin of Mello's shoulder brush against his arm. He leans in into the warmth of the scarred human being whose world is so saturated with bitterness, placing his head in the comfortable dip between Mello's neck and shoulder and defends his closeness by giving him another advise.

_Mihael, where did you go?_

**xxx**

The night is cold, just as cold as he feels when he sits in only a t-shirt and his boxers and looks at the pouring rain; as detached as any other day. He takes another drag of his cigarette, and holds his breath, waiting. When he finally releases it, he repeats the action and holds his breath again. Holding his breath, holding on. He used to believe that there was some kind of deity out there, watching over them and watching out for them, but when he turns his head to look at Mello while he tosses in the bedsheets with his brow furrowed and glistening with sweat because of the nightmares that he never talks about, he doesn't believe any more. He doesn't believe in anything any more.

And the city keeps crying, just like he does.


End file.
